


Conflagration

by pennydreadful



Category: Luther (TV)
Genre: M/M, Mentions of Violence, Pre-Slash, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-06
Updated: 2011-07-06
Packaged: 2017-10-21 02:29:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/219897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pennydreadful/pseuds/pennydreadful
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All the air has been sucked away by the fire that might have been (post-season 2 finale, spoilers galore).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Conflagration

**Author's Note:**

> I apologize to my Sherlock fans, I had to take a sidestep and get this out of my head. I'll be back writing Sherlock smut again before you can say BRING ME PORN!
> 
> There's A LOT of spoilers for season 2 (and season 1) in this. It takes place directly after the end of the season 2 finale (episode 02x04). And honestly, I'm a Luther/Alice shipper at heart, but these two won't leave me alone either.
> 
> **Since I get these questions a lot: I fully give my permission for anyone to translate any of my works into any language, make podfics/audiobooks out of them, or post them elsewhere (as long as you give me proper credit). Go for it, you don't have to ask! And thank you very much!**

"I guess you'll have to bin that jacket."

John lifted his head just enough to look in the mirror, hand on the back of his neck rubbing away tension sweat. _Go wash up_ , Martin told him in a shaky voice, _wash up and then we'll get all the official business out of the way_.

Justin stood in the bathroom doorway, behind him. John shook the water from his head and turned the faucet off.

"I might have," John said, and reached for the paper towel dispenser. He yanked several out and wadded them in his fist.

"I don't suppose the dry cleaner can do much with petrol saturation." Justin's voice was light, forcedly amused; the sound of someone completely shattered under the surface. "Was it petrol? Or kerosene? And how did you find it so fast?"

John rubbed the wad of towels over his face and wiped the water out of his eyes. He turned, swiveling at the waist, and stuck an arm out.

Justin frowned in question. His eyes said everything his mouth probably never would, those emotions that couldn't find the light of day even if there were words for them.

"What?" Justin asked.

"Smell," John told him.

Justin hesitated, brow knitted, then leaned forward tentatively as if there were a barrier around John he didn't dare breach. Maybe there was.

He sniffed the arm of John's jacket, still damp. He frowned, drew back, then leaned in and sniffed again. He moved higher up the sleeve. His frowned deepened.

"I don't—it doesn't smell like anything." He took a step back.

"That's because it's not, strictly speaking, anything." John squeezed the towels in his fist and made a half-hearted attempt at chucking them toward the bin. They bounced off the rim and fell to the floor. "Just water."

Justin's brow smoothed. His face sagged. The tension seemed to drain out, but that look, the one in his eyes, grew worse.

"So you were never really in danger," Justin said.

"Unless he dropped that switch, of course."

Silence. Justin glanced away, only for a second, but it was all he needed to compose himself so when he looked back at John and pulled a fake smile it almost looked real. Except for the tell at the corner of his mouth, a subtle twitch.

John could hear the words behind his lips. _I thought you would die_.

"You're very clever," he said instead.

"I was never close enough he could smell if it was really fuel," John said. "And I played it well, didn't I?"

"It was extraordinary. I could hardly breathe." It was the only honest thing he'd said so far.

"I'm sorry," John said. "I didn't know what else to do. I don't even think I knew what I was doing until I did it."

"You came out of it though, that's all that counts."

They stared at each other for a moment and an entire conversation took place between them that neither could hear. John could see it, though. The light shining in Justin's dark eyes said the things John's ears would never hear, but something inside him picked up like a receiver.

 _I trusted you_ , his eyes said. _I've_ _always trusted you. I waited nine months to trust you_.

They said: _I trusted you enough to endure disgrace_.

And: _I trusted you when you left me with Cameron. Trusted you to trust me to live_.

John wondered if Justin could hear the words caught inside him as well. The ones that consisted of:

_He made me listen to you scream._

_When it's not Zoe's blood, or Alice's whispers, it's your screams that wake me up in a cold sweat from a sound sleep._

_I let you hit him because I knew you needed it. I let you arrest him because I needed it._

Justin looked away, down. He clenched one fist at his side. Another tell.

"We best get out there," Justin said, and the light, amused tone had come back to his voice. "You've got a lot of reports to write."

"Millions of 'em, I suppose," John said, and drew a resigned sigh.

***

Only trouble came knocking at 2 a.m., so John opened the door carefully and squinted into the light of the hallway. It wasn't trouble, exactly, but it could become something like it.

"Sorry boss, should have called I suppose." Justin's voice had a tremulous edge. He looked different, not dressed for work. Casual, not composed. But his lack of composure had nothing to do with his t-shirt. "Didn't want to wake you."

"And knocking on my door doesn't wake me?"

Justin smirked with one corner of his mouth.

"Been drinking?" John asked.

Justin gave a slight shake of his head.

"Been thinking?"

Justin nodded.

"Worse." John stepped back a little. Not quite an invitation. He wanted Justin to be able to change his mind. "Got company, I'm afraid."

Justin quirked an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"Not that sort. Just helping a friend back on their feet."

"Oh."

John didn't know what saying any of that meant. What it was supposed to imply. What it wasn't supposed to imply. If it was a warning or a shield. No wonder Justin looked so uncertain, getting no clear feedback.

"I—" Justin said, and hesitated. He put a hand to his chest. "I still can't breathe," he said, clutching his fist over his heart. "I'm trying to draw one breath, then another. And I can't get any air in."

John wasn't sure how to help him. He'd stopped breathing a long time ago.

"When Cameron had me," Justin said, "he put a plastic bag over my head, before he left me for dead, just before I escaped."

John just listened.

"It's hard to think rational, when you can't breathe." Justin kept his fist against his chest. "I knew I needed to stay calm and think my way out of it, but it's hard when the air gets cut off like that. Hard to do anything but react."

"Simple survival," John said. "Instinct overriding the higher brain."

"Would you have forgiven me then, if you'd seen me? If you'd watched me abandon thought to madness?"

John considered it a moment. Then he stepped back, opening the door wider.

"Yes," he said. "I forgive you now."

***

Tonight there's no red-haired woman standing over him with a hat pin. Her lurid smile doesn't curl around the edges of his mind to remind him of betrayals and shotguns. There's no corpse on the floor just beyond the jagged remnants of the door he's destroyed. No young girls tied to beds in the sick white light of video cameras.

There's only Justin, finally breathing easy, next to his ear.

**Author's Note:**

> I was *this* close to writing everything that happens between John opening the door and the ending. I may be back with it.


End file.
